Produced by Al Haines
THE OWL TAXI
BY HULBERT FOOTNER
AUTHOR OF
"The Deaves Affair," "The Substitute Millionaire,"
"The Fur Bringers," "Thieves' Wit,"
"The Woman from Outside," etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
G. M. F.
WHO FILLED THE TANK THREE
TIMES A DAY AND KEPT THE
CHILDREN MODERATELY QUIET.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I The Transfer
II Greg's First Fare
III Greg's Second Fare
IV In the House on Ninth Street
V The Taxi Yard
VI Greg's Rival
VII The Undertaker
VIII The Hold-up
IX The Flivver as a Post-Office
X Amy's Story
XI The Ride Home
XII What the Little Black Book Contained
XIII De Socotra Hires T7011 Again
XIV Through the Streets
XV Nina
XVI The "Psychopathic Sanitarium"
XVII The Young Man with the Little Black Moustache
XVIII Blossom's Report
XIX The Abduction
XX Exit Senor Saunders
XXI Up-stairs and Down
XXII Nemesis
XXIII Conclusion
THE OWL TAXI
CHAPTER I
THE TRANSFER
At eleven o'clock of a moist night in December, Gregory Parr was making
his way far westward on Twenty-third Street. At his right hand
stretched that famous old row of dignified dwellings with pilasters and
little front yards, and ahead of him was Tenth Avenue, the stronghold
of the Irish. The wet pavements glistened under the street lamps, and
the smell of influenza was in the air. The street was deserted except
for a cross-town car at long intervals, hurling itself blithely through
the night on a flat wheel.
Greg was on his way to the Brevard Line pier at the foot of the street
to take passage on the great _Savoia_, premier steamship of her day and
on this particular trip the "Christmas ship." The _Savoia_ ran as true
to the hour as a railway train, and was scheduled to leave at one A.M.
in order to make the best rail connections. There was no reason why
Greg should have walked to the pier except that at the last moment his
heart was loath to leave little old New York, and even the least
interesting of her streets called to him. As he walked he communed
with himself somewhat after this fashion: "Lord! I didn't know the old
burg meant so much to me till I made up my mind to leave it! After all
maybe I'm a fool to pull up stakes here. I know the folks on this
side; their ways are my ways. I speak New York. Perhaps in London
I'll be like a fish in the grass." But his baggage was on the pier and
he had paid a deposit on his ticket. It never occurred to him that he
could still change his mind. On such trifles do the weightiest human
decisions turn!
He crossed Tenth Avenue and passed through the long block beyond with
its escarpments of dark factories on either hand. At Eleventh Avenue
the street opened into a plaza with the ferry houses facing him from
the other side, and a long line of steamship piers stretching south, of
which the Brevard pier was the nearest. Over the pier sheds Greg saw
the masthead light of the _Savoia_ gleaming brightly and heard the soft
murmur of escaping steam. On the corner was a little waterfront hotel,
the Brevard House, with inviting brilliantly lighted bar. Greg was
irresistibly drawn to enter. "One last drink to my own town," he said
to himself.
Within, the bar was absolutely typical, and therefore dear to Greg.
There was the very red and well-wiped mahogany counter, finished with a
round cornice to lean the elbows on, and with a brass rail below for
feet. Behind the counter the usual elaborate structure of mahogany and
plate glass reared itself to the ceiling, a super-mantel-piece as it
were, while between counter and mirrors moved a pink-cheeked young man,
in command, one might say, of the battalion of bottles behind him.
Bar-tenders used to be mustachioed, but now they are smooth and
pink-cheeked.
To Greg's disappointment he found the place almost empty; he desired
company; he longed to hear the racy speech of the Manhattan pavements
before he finally shook their dust from his feet. There were two
travelers, but they, having downed their drinks, were preparing to
leave; across the room sitting at a table was a human derelict, without
which no picture of a bar-room would be complete--but he was sleeping
under his hat like a candle under its extinguisher. The only other
customer present was a taxi-driver who was making friendly overtures to
the bar-tender. For some reason the pink-cheeked one scorned him.
These instinctive antipathies are impossible to explain; the bar-tender
was perfectly willing to hob-nob with the two travelers--invited to
drink with them he took a swig out of his private stock of cold tea
with gusto and charged them fifteen cents for the privilege; but as for
the poor taxi-driver, well, they did not belong to the same herd, that
was all.
Rebuffed in this direction the driver turned eagerly to the latest
comer, Greg. There was something almost pathetic in his anxiety to
make friends. Every soul has those moments of desperate lonesomeness.
Greg was not at all backward in responding. The driver was a spare
little man in an overcoat sizes too big for him and almost reaching the
ground. Greg was reminded of an old illustration of the Artful Dodger.
He had a sharp, humorous, apelike face, much seamed, and in his eyes
was a light at once childlike, impudent and deprecating. Taxi-drivers,
that is to say "owl-drivers" like this one, wear no uniform, but they
are unmistakable. It may be their overcoats which are full of
character. This one was incredibly worn and shapeless. With it went a
round cloth cap with a flap let down behind to protect the wearer's
ears and neck.
"Say fella," said this individual with engaging impudence; "drink with
me, will yeh, if it's not a liberty?"
"Sure," said Greg, "if you'll have another with me after."
"What are you drinking?"
"Rye high-ball."
"Well I don't gen'ally dilute my liquor but just to be high-toned--say
Jack! Two rye high-balls."
The refreshment was duly served. Greg noticed that as the taxi-driver
lifted his glass his hand trembled, yet he was a young and
healthy-looking man. Greg wondered momentarily if he had a secret
agitation, and then forgot about it.
They exchanged opinions upon the quality of the whiskey and the
rottenness of the weather outside. These and other pleasant
conventionalities, not to speak of two high-balls apiece, opened the
way for more personal communications. They decided they liked each
other.
"I'm Hickey Meech," said the driver. "Christened Robert at birth, but
Hickey because I come from the country, though that's fifteen years
ago, and I'm like to die before I see it again."
"I shan't tell you my name," said Greg. "Meaning no offense, you
understand; but it's been in the papers lately, and I want it to be
forgotten."
"Sure that's all right," said Hickey. "What's in a man's label anyhow;
'taint guaranteed by no poor feud law." He glanced sideways at Greg's
good clothes. "You're a bit off your regular beat to-night, ain't you?"
"I'm sailing on the _Savoia_."
"The Hell you say! Well some guys has all the luck!"
Greg laughed shortly. He experienced a sudden desire to talk about
himself; to put his case before a disinterested party who did not know
him, and whom he would never see again; it would help him to grasp his
own situation, he felt. During the last difficult weeks he had not
talked to any one.
"I don't know as anybody would call me lucky," he said. "I've lately
had a good crack over the head. Maybe it was good for my character,
but it hurt just the same."
"Oh, we all get those," the other replied sententiously.
"My Dad died when I was a kid," Greg went on. "He left us well-fixed
as things go. The property was all in the hands of his partner as
trustee. Well, since then I've been accustomed to sucking my silver
spoon, as you might say; went to the most expensive schools and
college, and didn't learn much except how to drive a racing car. I can
drive a car, but that's not going to lay up any bonds in a safe deposit
vault.
"Well, it's an old story, but, believe me, when it happens to yourself
it has all the effect, if not the charm, of novelty! A month ago our
trustee died and left his affairs in a snarl. Our property has just
vamosed; he didn't steal it, you understand; it just naturally melted
in his hot hands.
"I managed to save enough out of the wreck--it was my first experience
of business and I don't like it--to keep the girls from actual want,
but there wasn't a penny left for me. Of course I was well known in
certain circles and there were plenty of men who would have given me a
job out of charity; but I wasn't going to be a poor relation in the
crowd where I had once kept my end up with the best. I was pried loose
from my old foundations and I wanted an entirely fresh start. So I
decided to try my luck in London. No small town stuff for me. It
seemed like a good idea when it came to me but now--I don't know----"
The driver was all sympathy. "What's the matter? Leaving somebody
behind you?"
"No," said Greg smiling; "only the old town. I didn't know it had such
a hold on me!"
"Every dog loves its own lamp-posts," said Hickey. "It'll do you good
to see the world. Wish to God I had the chance! And you'll make good.
Even though you've lost your coin you've got the habit of class.
Nobody can't take that from you. And people just naturally give up to
a classy guy."
"I don't quite get you," said Greg.
"You've got style," said the taxi-driver. "Anybody could see you were
accustomed to traveling with top-notchers."
"Nothing in it," said Greg. "My 'style' as you call it only gets in my
way now that I've nothing to keep it up on. I'd do better if I could
begin life over on a section gang."
"Don't you fool yourself," retorted the taxi-driver. "That's the way a
swell always talks. 'Gee!' says he, 'if I was on'y a horny handed ton
of soil I could make something of myself!' It reads well in a book.
But take it from me, kid, the ditch-digger is the scratch man in the
race of life; he's got twict as far to run. Why any ordinary fella
born in a soft bed can keep it, but it takes one o' these here now
Napoleons to win one. Look at me now. I may as well say I ain't no
Napoleon and here I am. I was born to sweat, and I'm still sweating.
Of course I got my vices. I shoot craps; that helps keep me poor. But
it's the habit of being poor that's so hard to break. If I could only
once get ahead far enough to buy me a real swell outfit nothing could
stop me."
"You're dead wrong," said Greg. "There's not so much in appearances as
people like to think. Why, the richest man I know goes around looking
like a rag-picker. And there's many a fancy vest covers an empty
stomach. A workman with a good trade is a king alongside one of those
poor devils that clings to the edge of what is called Society."
"Well, I'd like to try a little clinging."
"There's nothing like honest work."
"For others. Anybody can have my share. I wisht I had your chances,
that's all."
"I'd give my 'chances' as you call them quick enough for a trade."
Hickey favored Greg with a queer look. "Do you mean that?"
"Sure I mean it."
There was a silence of a moment or two while Hickey dipped his
forefinger in a wet spot and drew designs on the mahogany. At last he
asked very off-hand:
"Would you call driving a taxi a trade?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"Well, why don't you try that? You said you could drive."
"Well, in London I don't suppose I could compete with the native
article."
"I mean here."
"I'm going to London, I told you."
"But you don't have to go. According to yourself it's just a notion
that you're sorry you took already."
"What are you getting at?"
"I'm just trying you out to see if you meant anything by your ideas.
Are you willing to take a sporting chance?"
"Try me."
Once more Hickey hesitated, and then the proposal came with a rush.
"Swap with me. I'll give you my flivver outside for three hundred and
those clothes you're wearing. She's mine free and clear. Paid the
final installment last week. She's not new, you may say, but all the
better. She's well suppled up. And a bargain at the price. Got an
elegant meter on her. Runs fast for fares and slow for the inspector.
I'll let you try her out of course before you pay the money."
Greg drew a long breath and stared at the other with widening eyes.
His life had come to the parting of the ways, and he was free to choose
any direction. This offer presented fascinating possibilities. Like
most young men Greg fancied--it would be hard to say why--that the life
of a cab-driver must be full of romance.
"You wouldn't have to leave the old town then," Hickey went on
craftily. "Believe me, you'd begin to see it for the first time.
Inside and out!"
Greg needed little persuasion. His own imagination pictured the
adventure in more glowing colors than the taxi-driver had at command.
It was something else made him hesitate.
"Sorry," he said regretfully. "I haven't but two hundred in the
world." An idea occurred to him, and his face cleared. "But I've
plenty more clothes like these. They're in trunks and bags on the pier
yonder. The outfit must be worth more than a hundred even at
second-hand clothes prices. I'll give you the claim checks. I'll
throw in the deposit receipt too, if you want to travel."
"I'll take you," said Hickey with suspicious promptitude; but Greg on
his part was too eager to be warned by it. "I'll take a flyer among
the English swells. If I make any breaks over there, they'll think
it's just because I'm a Yank."
"Well, let's take a look at the flivver," said Greg. "I suppose she'll
run."
"Run!" cried Hickey. "She can run like Duffy in the quarter mile!
Before we go out let me show you my papers is all right." He exhibited
cards for his car license and operator's license.
"You said your name was Meech," objected Greg. "These are made out to
Elmer Fishback."
"Oh, a coupla fellas owned the boat since Fishback," said Hickey. "The
cards always goes with the car. You'll have to be Fishback when the
inspector comes round. Here's my receipts for the payments."
These were signed by one Bessie Bickle.
"She financed the deal," explained Hickey. "She keeps a little yard
over on the East side, and I rent space from her. You might do worse
than keep on with her. Bessie's on the level. It's Gibbon Street
south of Houston. Jumping-off place on the East side. Better put it
down."
"Gibbon Street; I'll remember it by the Decline and Fall," said Greg.
Paying their shot they went out by the front door. The taxi rested
easily by the curb, like an old horse asleep. She had a slight list to
starboard--"From the bloated rich climbing aboard that side," explained
Hickey. Her absurd little engine hood was like a nose without
character, and the smoky lamps at either side like bleary eyes. To
complete the likeness to a head, the top projected over the windshield
like the visor of a cap. Greg was strongly reminded of the human
derelict inside the bar and his face fell. Romance receded into the
background.
Hickey watching him close made haste to remove the bad impression.
"Hell! Nobody expects looks in a flivver. Wait till you feel her move
under you! She's a landaulet, see? The top lets down in fine weather.
Take the wheel! Take the wheel! I'll crank her."
Greg remembered afterward that during this preliminary inspection,
Hickey stood squarely in front of the door of the cab, thus blocking
any view of the interior. But it never occurred to him to look inside.
He took the driver's seat, and Hickey cranked her. They started.
They had not gone a hundred feet before Greg discovered, though Hickey
kept up a running fire of praise to drown the myriad voices of the
flivver, that her piston rings were worn and her transmission loose.
She was indeed well suppled, a little too supple in fact. There were
other rattles, squeaks and knocks that he could not at the moment
locate. Nevertheless she ran; she ran indeed with the noisy enthusiasm
characteristic of her kind. There is no false delicacy about a
flivver. Greg never hesitated. He was a natural born mechanic, and
the engine of a flivver held no terrors for him.
When, having completed the circuit of the long block, they drew up
before the Brevard House again, Hickey said anxiously: "Well?"
"It's a go," said Greg curtly.
A little sigh escaped the other. "Where'll we change?"
"In the car," said Greg.
"Ain't room enough," hastily objected Hickey. "If we're going to
change we can't dress one at a time or the other would have to stop
outside naked."
"Well, I suppose we could get a room in this hotel."
"And let Nosey the bar-tender in on our business? No, sir! I tell
you. Let's go down behind the hogsheads."
Below, along the deserted waterfront, were great piles of heavy freight
which had overflowed from the pier-sheds. Here there were many
secluded nooks suitable for their purpose. Letting the taxi stand in
the roadway outside, the change of their outer clothing was soon
effected. Greg handed over money, baggage checks and receipt for the
deposit money; receiving in return the license cards and bill of sale.
"Don't forget you're Elmer Fishback to the inspectors," said Hickey.
In the light of an electric lamp overhead he strutted up and down the
aisle between the rows of hogsheads, swinging Greg's stick and "getting
the feel of his clothes" he said. They were several sizes too big for
him by the way, but he seemed not to be aware of that.
"Well, come on," said Greg. "Hop in, and I'll drive you up to the
_Savoia_ in style."
His hand instinctively went to the door handle as he spoke. Hickey
hastily pushed it aside. "Oh Hell, I'll ride on the front seat with
you," he said. "I ain't proud."
Greg ran her back to the Brevard Line pier. Many cabs were arriving
now bringing luxurious parties direct from the theaters and
restaurants. Greg took his place in the slow-moving line and in due
course reached the first cabin gangway. Hickey hopped off, and hooking
the stick over his arm, squared his meager shoulders with a swagger.
"Well ta-ta, old chap," he said in a throaty voice; "I'll write you
from dear old Lunnon."
"By-by," said Greg, biting his lip. He was sorry he had to miss the
comedy that would be played out on the _Savoia's_ promenade deck during
the next five days.
The cabs pressing behind forced Greg to move on. Turning on the pier,
he hastened away back to the town. As he went he endeavored to take
stock of his sensations, but without much success; they were rather
confused. Here he was a taxi-driver on his own cab, looking for a
fare, he told himself, but without quite believing it. The change had
been too sudden. He couldn't quite rid himself of the feeling that he
would wake up presently. He didn't feel like a taxi-driver inside.
The whole thing seemed a bit unreal. He had an absurd feeling that the
dark-windowed houses were racing past waving their stoops at him, while
he sat still in the middle of the road.
Little by little he began to believe in what had happened. For one
thing the flivver made a most convincing racket. Yes, there could be
no doubt of it! Here he was starting on the bottom rung of the ladder
just as he had always told himself he wished to do. Well, time would
show how far he could climb. Meanwhile there ought to be fun in it,
rich fun! Many a dollar had Greg spent in his day on the prowling cabs
of night! Here's where he would get some of it back. He knew the very
air, the confidential, everything-goes-between-good-fellows air with
which he must touch his cap and say: "Cab, sir?"
The old flivver rattled and bumped companionably across town. Greg was
making for the White Light district, of course, where fares were to be
picked up after midnight. At Madison Square he turned north on the
Avenue. With its disappearing perspective of twin lights in a double
row reflected from the wet pavement it was like a Venetian canal at
carnival time, but the old taxi was a noisy gondola.
Greg had gone no farther than Twenty-sixth Street when he was hailed
from the sidewalk by two men in evening dress, who had come perhaps
from the club down the street. Greg pulled up beside the curb and
leaned out to open the door as he had always seen the chauffeurs do.
"Where to, sir?"
"The Chronos Club."
One of the men made to get in and staggered back with a queer throaty
gasp: "Good God, what's this!"
Greg hastily slipped out of his seat. "What's the matter?"
"A dead body!" the man gasped, and instinctively looked around for a
policeman.
On the floor of the cab before them lay a bulky body queerly huddled on
top of an old valise. When the door had been opened the feet pushed
out uncompromisingly. The light of a street lamp fell full on the
upturned, yellow, dreadfully quiet face.
Greg's mind after an instant's stand of horror worked like lightning.
He shut the door pushing the feet in with it.
"Oh, he's only soused," he said carelessly. "I didn't know his friend
had left him behind. I'll have to take him to the station house now."
Springing back into the driver's seat he opened her up wide. The two
men looked after him with an uncertain air. The taxi leaped ahead. He
turned the next corner on two wheels, and the next and the next after
that. His blood was pounding in his ears. Finally in the middle of a
quiet block he ventured to draw up and listen. No sound of a raised
alarm reached him.